


On The Road

by FancyLadySnackCakes



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Near Death Experiences, Rain Sex, Warboys, badass toast, just apocalypse things, strutting lizard that thinks he's better than everyone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 08:25:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11009661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyLadySnackCakes/pseuds/FancyLadySnackCakes
Summary: Toast leads a party towards the Mall. Derailed by a blown engine, she takes Slit with her on a bike, keeping the tail of her crew secure. Buzzards ambush. Slit tastes Valhalla and the sky starts falling...Written for a MMFR Kink Meme prompt that I can't find the link to and has since evolved past the prompt anyhow.No warnings.





	On The Road

Toast scrunches her nose up at the fumes piling up from the engine - a beacon for any enemies of the Citadel to come for a free meal with heat and fire following. That smoke was a dinner bell, and Toast shoves a soft Warboy to the side, hearing the scrawny youth curse and stumble into the sand as she crawls up and onto the hatch of the ‘buet. The longer they hang around with their thumbs up their asses, the more chance they have of ending as Buzzard shit. 

“Whose head black-thumb?!” Toast shouts across the mass of oil darkened heads. She's met with furious chatter and twitching eyes. 

No one comes forward. 

“Roid?! Alphonso? Whoever you are - get your ass out here and fix this! Now!” She shouts, looking around at the suddenly motionless gaggle of white and black faces. After a long moment, a Warboy pushes forward, kicking up yellow sand - one careful look her way, and he's on the wagon, flipping up the hood to expunge the black fumes to the sky. A vein on the side of Toast’s temple pulses at the sight of the black-thumb scooping sand over the clouds of black…even to her that looked wrong, but the smoke was clearing so she figures progress was progress. It was his job, just as heading off the run to the Mall was hers. 

From behind her, a serrated and thinly pleased voice huffs, “Roid is gonna be crow shit.”

Toast peers off the side of the wagon to give the Warboy Slit a hard look. The sight of him with his boots kicked up on the lancer’s perch, defined chest covered in white paint and sand, picking his teeth with a bird bone and looking for all intents and purposes smug, makes Toast’s lip curl distastefully. Out of all the usual Warboys on her crew, he was the most deplorable. He could never keep his thoughts to himself, and she realized this often over the past six-hundred days. 

She's also, against her best wishes, been having strange, soft dreams about him that only sour her perception of him more. 

Always looking pleased when someone else was on the line - the heat in his eyes when she barks orders or reprimands a lazy git annoyed her to no end. He got his rocks off watching others fail where he succeeded. It wasn't even a Warboy thing - it was a Slit thing. 

It wasn't Slit’s fault the engine had overcooked, but Toast wishes it had been so she could take his ego down a peg. He needed a real shit show shoved in his face; in front of all his so called ‘inferior’ brothers. Something about the wide, scarred edge of his smile pissed her off; makes her wanna put her foot down on his stomach and shove him into the sand. Just the thought makes her stomach flutter with excitement. 

Toast was still waiting for him to fang up so she could wipe that smirk off his ruined face but his hubris wasn't all glamor. For all his bad manners and nasty remarks, she didn't know of another warboy half as talented as he was. What a kicker it would be when he finally fanged it properly. Toast was looking forward to it. 

When Toast glares down at him, he just smirks, stretching out like a sun-baked lizard; real smug. 

It takes a long time for Roid, the black-thumb, to pinpoint the problem. By the time the sun's gone down the engine was finally dead and Roid, along with another shorter, stockier Warboy were inside the mess of metal and oil with an electric torch trying to fix the problem. It would take awhile - longer than everyone back at the Citadel had time for, so Toast sends the other three wagons and two bikes out east to the Mall, leaving two armed Warboys with the black-thumbs. 

As the rest of them speed off in a blue trail of sand, Toast listens to them tipping and hollering under the sound of fumes, their engines guzzing. 

The Dag liked to compare the Warboys to dogs sometimes - to stinking ferals when the mood struck her - but these boys knew the wastes like the backs of their hands. The stars were no exception. Without the sun or their sight, they could travel by the stars just as easily. It reminds Toast of seafarers back in the before times; navigators of the seven seas and the comparison of which helps to wealthen her opinion of them. 

Warboys were worth more than battle fodder, of course they were, but old ideals died hard and thinking of them as explorers of the stars and sands made her view of them lighten somewhat.

“We headin’ out then, Knowing?” Slit asks her from the last bike left. He looks over at her under a dark, furrowed line of black grease with mismatched eyes. The one filled with old blood squints more so than the other one.

Yes, against her better judgment - or more like The Dags - she keeps Slit for herself. She might end up regretting it, but for now he's the best Warboy for the task at hand. Toast leaves her rifle with the busted vehicle and the next best weapon on hand was a good Lancer with a high supply of explosives, which Slit has in spades. For all Toast knows, he probably has a tiny bottle of guzz strapped under his cock and balls. A fanciful image of Slit’s cock tried to materialize behind her eyes, but Toast shakes her head and gathers the rest of her gear. 

Standing back up, looking at his impatient visage, tempts her again... 

He's straddling the back seat of the bike, shoulders hunched with a thunderstick stuck beside him in the sand. The curl of his stomach muscles and pectorals would have flustered her, but it's dark enough that Toast can't see him all that well. Just left more to the imagination, she tells herself, wondering if this ‘obsession’ of hers was going to become an actual problem or not.

But when he gives her a mean smile; showing a few fangs, it's nearly as bright as the moon. As much as this one annoyed her, he was the best Lancer still alive, and for that, he'd go with her. 

Toast gives him a calculating look, which… given the darkness surrounding them, he most likely couldn't see, but something in his posture changes under her gaze. One of the perks of leading a crew was the sense of power she got from commanding a bunch of overpowered and kamicrazy Warboys - Slit being no exception. 

When he listened and did as he was told, with glee it seemed, Toast realized how easily she could get drunk with power if she weren't careful.

But she was careful. If there was one lesson to take away from the old way of life, it was that power was easily corruptible and those with it had to be careful. Sure, Toast could get rid of whatever tension she had in her loins with Slit - he'd get off just because she was the boss and it put him in a higher position over the others - but that felt too much like what Joe would have done… once again power wasn't all it was cracked up to be. 

Toast swings her leg up over the bike, curling her palms around the handles and twists back to the remaining crew watching over the broken ‘buet. 

“You lot!” she yells over at them, making sure every set of eyes were on her before pointing out west towards the dark wall of the Citadel, “if you get jumped by Buzzards, take that bike and leave the ‘buet behind. I can’t replace Warboys like I can a hunk of metal. You understand?”

They look at her under cover of darkness. No, of course, they don't comprehend, but it's an order, so they all nod, saluting her with a couple chanting ‘mothers’ before they shimmy back down. 

Toast frowns but shakes off that slimy feeling she always gets when the Warboys revert back to that aloof stance on death. To them - to most of them - they still believe they're replaceable. When one of them died another filled their place so how could they not see themselves just as disposable as objects? It saddens Toast to be reminded of this, but only time could fix that… and they had time now… at least most of them did - more time than before. 

“Alright,” she grumbles, revving the bike until it speeds up off the sand without tearing into the blue earth too deep to fly away. The wind slaps against her cheeks, rubbing them pink as Slit balances on the back; silent as he scouts the dark horizon with eagle accuracy. 

“You gone off track, Knowing,” Slit tells her after a few minutes with gravel in his throat and thrusts a scarred, painted arm off to her right, pointing to a bunch of flat nothings, but Toast turns the axle, and he makes a pleased growl from behind her neck. One of the dreams she'd had over thirty days ago creeps back up at the back of her mind, making the vibrations between her thighs itch oddly. It wouldn't be the first time Toast has felt like this. 

She's since touched herself to soft thoughts of male lovers and heated kisses, of lovemaking and rough fucking too. The Warboy at her back has been on her mind too often. He's on her mind now despite how hard she tries to ignore him... but Slit scoots up closer, and it's more than a bit distracting. 

Without thinking Toast throws back her elbow, getting him in the ribs. He grunts and calls her ‘roadkill,' kicking back on his perch; grumbling. 

They've all got their unique personalities just like everyone else, despite trying to emulate the perfect mold of battle fodder, but she's yet to classify Slit as anything more than a schlager… he's got a unique flare about him that's both frustrating and attractive. 

After a few moments, Slit squares his shoulders, body poised. She can see him gazing to the left out the corner of her eye, but she can't see anything for the dark of night. 

Trust him, she repeats to herself, but sometimes it's still hard for her to blindly go with one of their instincts; which have never failed her outside the Citadel. Slit vibrates behind her and the telling sound of him removing a thunderstick off the back makes Toasts stomach tighten. Something's out there, even if she can't see it. 

Toast, despite feeling sick with anticipation, keeps the blazing bike east. There's something black and tiny in the distance - blacker than everything else - and there's no doubt it's the rest of her crew. So they weren't far behind, she thought, forgetting for a second about Slit behind her; seeing something she didn’t. 

“Turn east! Hard!” he spits and shouts in her ear. 

Toast sweats despite the cold wind blasting her skin and veers east as hard as she can without tipping them over or getting the motor clogged. A zip of air raises all the hairs on the back of her neck and an explosion of yellow and red blossoms out of the dark blue in the distance. It’s a Buzzard bike - not a full cab, but where there’s one, there’s several, and Toast already hears the sounds of Slit grunting, preparing and raising another thunderstick.

“Fang it,” he hisses right against the back of her neck, so close Toast feels one of the metal studs in his cheek pressing over the shell of her ear. 

She gives the handle a burning twist, and they fly forwards. Slit's chest bumps into the back of her head at the jolt, but Toast is too hopped up on adrenaline to be flooded with bad memories at his closeness - if anything it's exciting. Might be she wants more of it. 

Red dots the blue again and Toast races past the crackling flames, feeling the heat and the rotten stench of guzzoline and burning flesh. They just barely skate out of the way before, what must have been a cabby, blows; throwing bits of shrapnel out along the blue sands. White trails of puffy grit billow under the falling debris. 

Toast can’t breathe, but her blood is chugging along strong, and Slit is making ragged snarling growls and hot breaths behind her as he aims another thunderstick over them both.

He doesn’t use the third one… not because the Buzzards are gone, but because several of them are swerving around the crackling remains of the blown cabby and peeling after them. Slit doesn’t sound pleased, but he reaches over her - his wide, hard shoulders encompassing her body - the hot bare skin of his chest shoved up against her - as he takes the handles in her hands and twists the bike to the right, barely making the turn into a high dune.

The sharp sand hits her as Slit jerks them both off the bike. She watches him pile sand up over metal and rubber, and though Toast doesn’t understand, she knows enough to help him. It’s to hide it; she realizes with wide, frightful eyes just before Slit pulls her into him and starts to shoulder them into a soft dune, shoving her face into his neck where his scarf rests, and in a matter of seconds they're both covered in cold, dense sand. 

She can only barely breathe, but the musky cotton around his neck leaves enough room for her to take short, wheezing inhales through her nose.

It's crazy and there's no reason for it, but she feels unquestionably aroused as his arms squeezed her and his musk fills her senses as they lay in wait for death. 

Through the sand she can hear and feel the cabbies gunning it in circles, trying to find them. It takes forever, longer than Toast thinks Slit has time for - if she can barely breathe then no way he can like this. She’s right. The cabs drive off and the world goes fuzzy with silence and Slit doesn’t move... his chest doesn’t rise underneath her. Toast stretches and kicks and falls out of his limp arms into the night air, gasping wildly. She hacks up dust and grit and scrambles for the exposed hand beside her. She latches on around his lancer’s brace and tugs him out of the dense, shifting blue. 

Slit doesn’t move.

For a moment, Toast freezes, forgetting everything Cheedo and the Vuvalini taught her about sand drowning and all the while Slit in laying there in the blue, half covered with it and motionless. 

Maybe he’s dead. 

No, Toast shakes her head and fingers his ruined mouth, prying his jaw open to check for a clog.

“Come on,” she hisses, not able to see down his throat but not feeling anything but a soft, spongy tongue and his hard palate beyond the teeth. Not clogged, she decides, so she takes in a large breath, pinches his nose and breathes into his mouth until it feels like her lungs are dried out like fruit jerky. 

“One, two…” she chants, pressing the heel of her palm down on his chest, between his ribs. Nothing happens for what feels like minutes until she punches his sternum in a wary combination of panic and despair and beyond all hope, Slit lurches to life. 

Toast grins; sweat running down her forehead as he grunts and twists, throwing up a slurry of sand. It’s disgusting, and she feels inadequate for not noticing he had all that shit in his throat, but it's coming out, and he’s hacking more slimy grit up, but he’s also pulling in hard breaths and… fangin’ hell… he’s not dead.

“Mother have mercy,” she whispers, mimicking The Dag in her relief even though Toast usually scoffs when she hears the same words on someone else's tongue. 

Toast realizes, as Slit brings oxygen back into his blood, that he was willing to die to keep her from drowning… it makes her skin feel raw and beaten and her heart sore. Of course, they would do something like this. To them, they’re still nothing but half life, and she’s chrome and if anyone’s going to die it’s going to be him. She can hear him mocking her already, so she bites her lower lip and holds back what she really wants to tell him… but Toast isn’t sure she’d have pulled through given their fates switched. She doesn’t want to admit it, but she’s soft still in so many ways.

Slit spits a wad of gunk on the sand between them and without thinking Toast crawls closer and lays a small hand on his damp shoulder, rubbing away layers of sand and sweat; hoping she’s being soothing and not demeaning. Not once in her six-hundred plus days of freedom has she seen the Warboys show physical affection towards one another, and if they do it’s not where she can see. Slit’s tense reaction to her affectionate touching makes Toast think they don’t show much intimacy even in private.

“You right yet?” she asks him with an edge, hoping it dampens any weirdness between them as she pats and rubs him while he recovers. The last thing she wants to do is make him feel like he’s weak. Before this near-death experience she’d been looking forward to taking his ego down a peg, and now she’s hoping she doesn’t crush it right now. 

Slit shakes his head, sand sprinkling out of his ears. Now that he’s not dead or near-dead, Toast watches him wiggle out of the rest of the dune, throwing her hand off with a shrug. Her face goes red as he unhooks one belt and shoves his hefty pants down around his ankles. 

“...shit,” she curses under her breath, looking down at her hands as he kicks off his boots along with the rest of the fabric. 

She’s seen plenty of naked Warboys over the many days of leading a crew, but she’s never seen Slit like this and, maybe it’s because of the dreams, but she can’t blink away the stained visual of his cock bouncing softly between his legs as sand waterfalls off him. It never ceases to amaze her how someone so hard and violent could have something so soft and fragile between their legs...

The horizon is dead and dark and a new shade of blue. Indigo, Toast thinks. 

They must have veered off course during the chase because Toast could have sworn she’d seen the bump of the Mall on the horizon before the Buzzards showed up. If she’d seen it at all, it’s gone now. She doesn’t know which way is which now that the Citadel is out of sight, but that’s what Slit’s for... although the realization that she doesn’t know the stars as well as the Warboys, makes her feel like a poor Imperator.

They deserve better than her…

In the sand, Slit throws a bone comb at her - the grooves in it are shallow and dull. It’s a warboy thing not meant for someone with hair, but Toast takes it off the soft ground and runs it through her short black hair all the same. It shakes loose the sand just fine and even though she feels strange taking peeking at him - knowing he isn’t ashamed in the slightest - she steals glances under her bangs. His penis leans to the side, lying over two balls of flesh. Toast isn’t sure what the deal is between Warboys and determining their strength on the size of their dicks, but Slit’s is bigger than most... maybe the biggest she’s seen which explains why he’s such a smeg; too prideful most of the time. Perhaps it took too much blood to keep an organ that large fueled for him to have much blood left for the compassion center of his brain. 

As Toast watches silently, Slit runs a large, burly hand down between his legs, jiggling his bits free of sand kernels and does the same all down his legs before picking up his pants and dumping them out. There’s sand in her own pants, and boots and grit under her breasts but Toast doesn’t want to undress in front of him... even if the feeling is terribly uncomfortable.

“You need help or somethin’?” 

Toast pulls her eyes away from between his legs and swallows, shaking her head. Slit narrows his eyes - the red one slanting tighter than the other with suspicion.

“Sand’s gonna ruin that softness, Knowing,” he tells her; voice even less smooth than it usually is. The sand has busted his throat, and it’s painful to listen to, but he doesn’t look like he’s hurt, or spooked after nearly going out under pounds of sand in his lungs. Almost dying is common for them. 

Toast gives him a passing sneer and yanks off her boots just to appease him. He doesn’t look any happier as he watches her dump them out.

He hocks a glob of phlegm-coated sand off to the side, still staring and frowning and very much naked, “Even ‘your’ feet are rough. Not worried about them - worried about your soft bits.”

“My soft bits shouldn’t even cross your mind, Warboy,” she tells him with an edge to her voice that she doesn’t feel. 

To Slit’s credit he doesn’t back down, just squares his shoulders and presses his hips forward, unknowingly causing Toast’s eyes to shake with temptation. Don’t look at him, she tells herself.

“Not suppose to let nothin’ get you. Imperator Furiosa said she’d have my stick cooked up for the road rats if you come back with a hair missing,” he says, stepping towards her. He crouches down before her in the sand and Toast’s eyes shift between his spread legs and back up just as quickly. Even in the darkness, he’s painfully exposed to her, and the shadows obscuring him doesn’t help where her mind starts venturing. Instead of pushing him back, and acting like a flustered pup, Toast glares at him as her toes curl into the sand.

She braces herself, shoulders squared as though she's not sitting on the ground and tells him, “I’ve already lost some hairs, and you bruised my hip when you tossed us off the bike,” saying that makes Slit’s face fall in horror, “So, get your pants back on and let's move out. I’m sick of waiting for you to make yourself pretty.”

“You’re busted up?”

Toast digs her palms into the sand and starts crawling backward away from him, but he kneels down - thighs around her hips - and suddenly his fingers are pulling at her waist. Toast sighs before she can stop herself, but when his thumb hooks into the waistband of her pants she flinches and punches him in the chest; her knuckles singing in pain as his hard muscles fend off the blow.

Slit snarls as Toast shoves him back again, but he goes without a fight and glares at her in the darkness. He grapples his shoulder where she’d thrown her second punch and rolls it with a dejected groan. They don’t talk about it again, and Slit doesn’t try to see for himself if she’s marked by his hands - not that it’s his fault for bruising her while saving her ass from becoming Buzzard shit. Better off having a sore spot on her side than being raped, torn apart and eaten.

The problem is... that Slit’s the best the Citadel Warboys has to offer for lancing, but he's shit with engine guts, and Toast only knows as much as Nux has taught her, which doesn't translate to bikes as it does to a rig. Before Toast can stop him, Slit gives the guzz-tank a kick; sand bouncing out of the intricate metals pieces.

“You mediocre imbecile, look! - you've dinged the damn tank!”

Slit stops to stare at the dimple he's made in the inch-thick guzzoline tank. His eyes blink off kilter before he snarls, “So!? It wasn't going to work without the dent. Now it won't work with the dent.”

For a moment, she gapes at his defensive stupidity before tossing a broken lug nut at him. It pings off his chest and disappears into the blue sand and only makes his lip curl with annoyance. 

“Don't be stupid,” she tells him, “that makes no fucking sense, you stupid smeg-shit Warboy!”

As Toast yells at him, Slit goes ominously quiet, itching at the raised cluster of scarification on his stomach while he looks down at the ruined bike. He doesn't offer a rebuttal, but Toast can see his jaw work as he chews on the scars inside his mouth. 

“You've got your flare on you?” Toasts asks him after a beat of awkward, tapping the wheel on the bike with a clipped sigh. Slit nods, but stays quiet until his head snaps and he's looking at the horizon; eyes narrowed as if he sees something. 

“What is it?” She doesn't want to be buried underneath the sharp sand again - doesn't want to blow air back into his lungs so she can watch him vomit up the earth and sweat through his paint. Slit’s long, calloused fingers move up over his chest to the shoulder she punched. 

He squeezes the hard meat of his bicep and throws her a lip curling frown, “Sky stains are blocking out the lights.”

Toast tips her head back, looking up at the starry night sky as the clouds start flooding in. They're thin and harmless, nothing thick enough to take away the thankful glow off the moon, but without them, Slit’s navigation skills are worth fuck all. 

“Can you not tell which ways west?”

“Of course I can,” he grumbles, but twists and turns, scanning the horizon and doesn't for a second look like he knows where they are. Toast should be annoyed by his lack of humility, but worse case scenario they wait until the moon moves a bit further across the sky and shoot off his flare. Maybe they’ll be lucky and catch their crew coming back instead of patrolling Buzzards. The fact they ran into them at all surprises her. Those buzz-bitches usually only scurry around the dunes when the sands yellow, not blue. 

Slit kicks the bike again, denting something else but Toast doesn't bother yelling at him. He's a Warboy - if he chooses to take out the guzz in his system on a hunk of useless metal then let him. Stopping him would only make him more annoying - more volatile. She needs him clear-headed.

Right now, Toast’s new dilemma is timing their flares right. It's not as though they veered too far off. Both her and Slit will more than likely see the rigs in the distance when they start heading back to the Citadel, and it'll be as simple as waiting to hitch a ride. She's thinking about walking back to the carcasses of steel Slit’s thunder sticks left behind; cooking in the darkness, but Toast knows there's a chance Buzzards will be heading back to pick apart anything salvageable from the wreckage. 

Better they stay here, she figures, sinking back down to the earth with an exhausted sigh. 

As they wait, she starts feeling uncomfortable being alone by herself with a Warboy... she shouldn't but Toast does, and that old, familiar feeling of panic starts out slow like a warm sunny day but if she's not careful it'll burn and peel. 

Slit seems like the worst of the bunch to be stuck with... and it's easy to forget sometimes how violent and brutal they all can be - this one especially, but he's not so bad anymore. Toast peeks a dark look over at Slit, who's perched on the turned over bike with a bone pick between his teeth, sucking on spit and glaring out against the distance. He won't trouble her. 

Sure, if she instigated something he’ll spit right back at her without hesitation, but for the most part Capable has done an excellent job in securing their safety. The Warboys haven't shown a hint of malice towards her, her sisters, the Milk Mothers or any of the former Wretched. One might say they've been pacified... but that's far from the truth. 

“What’s it like dying?” Toast blurts out, after staring too long at the wrinkle of burns all down half of his torso. It's easy not to see them in the light of day when he's covered in fresh war paint, but he's sweat most of it off, and the sands took nearly the rest, and the moon is shining just full enough to where the scars are bright, vivid and shiny. 

Including tonight, he's died twice as far as she knows.

Slit gives her a guarded look, as if he can't trust her with the truth, but he crunches on the pick between his teeth and tells her, “Real mediocre.”

“What,” Toast smirks, dropping a handful of sand down between her crossed legs, cocking her head over at him, “you weren't taken in by a bunch of shiny breeders and washed in a spray of cola? What'd you see if you didn't see Valhalla?”

It's mean, because very few of them believe in the Valhalla Joe poked their heads with anymore, but it doesn't mean they don't have a new place they want to go when their lives are up.

Slit rolls his shoulders and hops off the bike - smooth and agile - and crawls the short distance towards her before sinking down in the sand, close enough his body heat replaces some of the cold. “I saw burning rigs and sizzling meat. It made me hungry, so I woke up to find me some food and then here we are Knowing.”

She'd been referring to the time he spent in the sands after the Fury Road, but he speaks on tonight, oddly enough.

Toast's stomach sinks as she runs her eyes over his pale, shadowed figure, but doesn't see a wrinkle of mistruth. He's lying, she thinks - he's trying to get a rise out of her, but Slit doesn't wear that mean twist to his mouth that's usually there so he must be earnest. Hell, Toast thinks. Maybe they’ll all end up there eventually.

“So you liked the smell of other men burning, huh?” She jokes, or tries to, but his eyes are slanted and calculating, and there's something intelligent and nasty behind them that makes her skin crawl. 

“Forget I said anything,” she mutters, bringing her knees up towards her chest to rest her arms around them, pushing her chin over the back of her hand. Shouldn't have said anything, because now he's gazing and that weak panic is subsiding into something like adrenaline but isn't - it's less pure than that and now is not the time if there ever was. Toast is about to say something stupid when a glitter in the sky makes her jerk upwards, staring at the cloudy space in the heavens.

“Didn’t mean to spook ya, Knowing - so easy to rattle for ah-”

“Shut up,” Toast hisses, nodding up at the dark flickering sky over their heads.

Slit cants his head back, arching his spine with a long snarl, but even out the corner of her eye she can see how his mouth falls into a puffy line. A rumble of noise brings her heart into her throat; makes her skin prickle into tiny little bumps.

“Wind tastes too clean to be a sandstorm…” the confusion in his tone doesn’t make Toast feel any better about the distant booms or the dim light that cuts the darkness, exposing a mountain of dark, angry clouds. There’s something strange in the air - it tastes…

“Cola?” Slit mutters, staring off into the distance. He sees it before she does, but after a dozen long moments sitting still on the precipice of panic, she sees it too. The blue sands begin peppering with black dots, growing damp and darker than she’s ever seen it. Thunder - that’s what it's called - echoes heavy in the distance and a sound like the rush of aqua cola in the aquifers builds and builds until Toast is scrambling across the sand as fat drops of water fall over her feet, legs and engulfs her.

With an unbelievable gasp, for the first time, she feels rain on her skin.

It’s raining! - it’s rain. 

Water is falling from the sky like it did in the time before. A big, tight smile stretches Toast's face as the water, clean and tasteless falls over her face, floods the cracks in her lips and soaks her clothes. Bloody hell, she curses; wide-eyed at the torrents pounding down against them, around them and further on. 

“Slit… it’s rain!? I-it’s raining.”

The Warboy looks dumbfounded; speechless. Slit's head is angled up at the pouring sky with those distinctive eyes wide open. She can see his lashes flutter as drops of water fall over his exposed orbs. The aqua flows over him... cleaning the dusty sand and old paint away - it sags his pants around his hips until they’re barely hanging on and Toast can't stop herself. She chugs through the squishy, wet sand and wraps her arms around him - hot, drenched skin slapping her own. It’s odd, visceral and sensual. The sensation feels primal, and a wildfire hisses alive inside her belly, contained against the rain.

This, it’s a miracle, and in a perfect world she’d have her sisters there with her, enjoying this moment together, but all she has is Slit, and so she squishes her chest and hips against him, holding him as firm as she can as the baffling bliss of the moment takes hold. Toast doesn’t feel this often - happiness - and when Slit lifts a hand to rest on the top of her head, she laughs and rubs her nose inside the dip of muscles at the center of his chest; tears of joy mixing with the rain.

Above her, Slit says something muffled - something reverent and warm.

“What?!” she asks loudly, having to raise her voice under the pounding of the rain. She peels herself back with a genuine grin.

“Valhalla,” he whispers, barely audible under the grate of his voice and the downpour, “the sands took me. This-this is Valhalla. I was right.”

Toast gives him a look under the curtain of rain, but his healthy eye is half closed when he tips his chin down and gathers a fist full of her hair, angling her head up so he can cover her wet lips in a hungry, savage kiss. It takes her a moment to realize what’s happened - that Slit, for all his self-appointed intelligence, thinks he’s dead... that he’s where he knew or hoped he’d end up. He thinks he’s in a world where aqua cola falls from the sky, and a shiny breeder is holding him like he means something. Toast winces as his teeth bite her lower lip; his thick tongue tipped, flicking over the soreness left behind. 

Maybe… maybe they both died. It would explain the rain and this sudden elation she feels.

One of those large, lancer palms of his lifts and grabs a handful of her breast, thumb brushing hard over her cold-peaked nipple. Gratified currents of pleasure jolt down the load of her breast, straight through to her navel.

No, they are alive… she’s felt too much panic since pulling herself out of the sand - since smacking the grit out of his throat - to be dead. 

They’re not dead - he’s not dead.

Toast moans as Slit pinches her nipple, rolling it between thumb and forefinger while his lips and teeth work her tender mouth into a throbbing mess. They might as well be dead because Toast decides to do something foolish enough to get them killed. She digs her fingernails into the thick meat of his back and throws her tongue up under his own. 

It’s a furious battle for more taste, more touch and sensation. Slit snarls, teeth skimming past her lower lip to her chin and then curses in Warboy slang. His hands cup under her rear end, bounces her up and then further until she’s lifted against his chest; thighs around his waist. Through a sideways curtain of rain and sludge-like sand, Slit cuts the distance towards the bike. Hard cushion replaces his broad palms and Toast has to stifle an embarrassing sound as he falls to his knees before her. 

At this angle he’s still too tall, sucking at her peaked nipple through the thin layer of cotton. The worn fabric protects the tender flesh from his frenzied bite, but not the jolt it shoots through her. Who would have imagined her breasts would be so receptive to touch. Not even Joe had tormented her with his hands there… and yet Slit didn’t suck and tongue them like a pup would for mother’s milk. 

Toast worries for a second about Buzzards, but the sky is leaking for the first time in decades and her and Slit will be the least of anyone’s concerns until the rain abates. Let it never stop, Toast prays. Let the world flood and wipe the slate clean. The thought feels petulant and dark even as Slit’s wide lips drag down over her stomach to the edge of her belts. 

"I'm gonna breed you, Toast The Knowing."

“We’re gonna fuck, Slit… this isn’t breeding, alright?” Toast manages it without a single stutter - with all the conviction of a seasoned Imperator. She almost wishes Furiosa could have heard her, but the words themselves weren’t meant for anyone but her and Slit. 

On his knees, paint nearly gone completely, Slit stares up at her blankly before a wide grin splits his face. Those puffy red scars high under his cheekbones bunch and tug, making him look less of a man than he does with the paint somehow, but Toast likes it. Maybe she even loves it, because even though the rain falls in cold droplets, she feels like she’s on fire. 

Short billows of steam rise off his shoulders… so, she’s not the only one cooked on this feeling.

Slit nods - just the one time - and undoes her belts with practiced ease. The clasps and hooks are the same design as Slits and every other Warboy. Either it’s easy for him because Slit spends every day undoing and doing up his own… or has undressed other Warboys as he’s doing to her now. Both scenarios conjure explicit daydreams, though one more than the other. The heavy cargo linens slide off her hips and folds between them. The rain soaks her hot thighs, slipping down between them to the burning flesh dampened by her own excitement. Cool sky-cola washes away some of the sweat and arousal, but it’s not heavy enough to clean away the copious fluids slipping out of her.

It’s never felt like this…

… and it never will again, a voice whispers. All the more reason to not overthink this. Toast swallows and spreads her thighs before Slit can yank them open, knowing he would given the state of him; all bouncing muscles and quivering lips. She can hear his straining breathing past the pounding rain and maybe he can understand Toast’s as well.

Slit leans in, and she’s ready enough for the line in the sand to vanish. His tongue spears her tangy flesh, wedges in deep and curls, licking moisture out of her; dredging her body of all that desire, it’s at once off-putting and addictive. The feeling of him is slimy and hot and when his tongue slides out, running up soft wrinkles of skin, Toast sighs. 

Slit’s tongue grazes her clit and with shaking hands, she takes his temples in her palms and pushes him back down to it, allowing herself a heavy moan as his lips tug it into his mouth.

“Right there,” Toast says, swollen with desire. 

Confirmation does well for Slit, for knowing what she prefers give him reason to lap and suck along the crease of hard nerves. Slurping noises breach the rainfall, spreading heat up her belly and chest until the warmth is its own creature. As Slit feasts along her cunt, Toast peels her saturated shirt away, slapping it over the handlebars of the bike. The droplets sooth the fever, cooling her tender nipples and steaming over her skin. 

Between her spread thighs, where Slit is slurping and sucking; feasting with relish and happy grunts, Toast shoves at his forehead. He growls, nips tender skin with his teeth but doesn’t fight her, justing sneers and glares up at her. His tongue snakes out to tongue away the taste of her around his torn lips. It’s almost enough to make her say fang it and tug him back, but Toast wants to erase the final stain of Joe from her body… and Slit’s cock can help rub it away.

But first, she urges Slit up on his feet with a tug of his chin. He slides up her like a reptile, fast as a viper. 

“Listen here Warboy, we’re not dead,” she tells him. He looks unconvinced but listens as raptly as he would her orders on a run, “This is rain, it used to fall from the sky in the before times, but when the world died it stopped. It’s happening now… I don’t know why and honestly, I don’t care. Do you understand?”

There a long span of time where Slit’s mind seems to trigger and spark, but his brows pinch into frustration. Toast swallows, about to try better at explaining it but he just palms her hips and leans in, asking, “Do I need to understand?”

“That we’re not dead? - yes, you do.”

“Fine,” he agrees, “No Valhalla, then. Just means I got Knowing on my tongue without goin' out soft.”

It’s almost sweet, but it sends a pang down her stomach that’s much too obscene to be sweet. With a light kiss that makes Slit’s face brighten near enough to look like a pup, Toast tugs at the edge of one thick leather belt, nodding. He’s bare as before in a matter of short moments.

A hard, blushing cock juts from shaved muscle, pale in the light of the moon. Rain caresses down, running over his sac until Toast can’t help herself. She strokes a finger underneath the length, drawing him in like a yanked leash with that one soft stroke.

He stuffs his feet into the sand, gets a good foothold before Toast tugs at his cock, pressing him where he needs to be. Slit puffs out a hot breath and moans, “You’re so shine my eyes hurt.”

Toast feels her chest tighten. It’s not wordless dribble, either. It’s sappy, like something out of Cheedo’s word burgers, but it’s genuine, and a little blanket of comfort falls over her shoulders as the sticky tip of him nudges her drenched opening.

That first nudge of his flared cockhead, stretching unused flesh, triggers old memories. Toast halts him with a fearful gasp, nails curling frantic inside the cage of his arms. Slit’s no smeg. He’s proven he’s as smart as he is robust and talented at what he does. Perceptive, very much so. Despite the rain dribbling over his lashes and the brutal rise and fall of his back as he hunches over her, he knows a look of fear when he sees one. 

However, he has no tac. 

“Immortan’s dead,” he breathes, licking away sky-cola with the same long, pointed tongue that had been inside her moments ago. Slit reaches the width of his palm away from her hip, petting the hanging black of her cropped hair as if to soothe her. It shouldn’t make Toast feel safer to be pet like some mutt or shiny object, but it does. She can spend the trip back to the Citadel worrying about the whys. 

Slit blinks, moves like he plans to kiss her bit halts midway, snarling, “Should I put my pants back on - you gonna let the ‘old man’ fuck you again? Not very Knowing of you…”

It’s the first time she’s heard a Warboy refer to Joe the same way her and her sister’s do. Old habits die hard, and most of them still call him Immortan from time to time. Habit, she assumed. They don’t say the title with reverence any more, but it still tickles bad memories and old anger. 

Slit waits, glaring heatedly. He doesn’t sugar coat it, and though Toast loves her sisters and their soft, gentle understanding and careful words, Slits brutal act of tenderness is a welcome treat. 

Toast smirks, licking rain off her lower lip and says, “I ‘know’ you’re really gonna have to fuck me good, so I don’t think about that smeg-shit.”

Slit’s lancer grip runs into the damp strings of her hair, tugging her lips a scant breath from his own, “Don’t let me hurt you.”

With an eager nod, Toast agrees, running her grip around the back of his ribs, anchoring her nails into the slick muscled flesh. Against her cunt, his cock twitches, presses, and slips into her. The initial intrusion stings. There’s so much lubrication that the glide of his length settles too deep too quickly, but it’s a joyful sort of pain. There’s no way Slit won’t hurt her a little. He’s near twice her size and the organ between his legs is easily double whatever she’s had in the past. Warboys had too much testosterone and forced evolution to be anything but imposing fodder. The weighty cock sitting inside her explains why Slit always walks around like he owns the place, even back when Joe was in charge - or so she heard.

Slit pants, lower lip hanging slack against sharp teeth and moon-lit gums. The darkness has swallowed them up, but Toast can see him just fine as his brows curve inwards, wrinkling as he slips his length back, nearly leaving her body completely. The first few thrusts are short and sweet; so slow they don’t feel real coming from someone like him. 

Despite how violent and egotistical he is, Toast isn’t shocked by the gesture. This might be the first time he’s fucked a woman… could be the first time he’s fucked someone ever. It doesn’t matter either way because she knows to a Warboy, being able to do this with one of the former Wives, must be an honor. She’s not jealous of his past encounters; real or imaginary. 

“You can go faster,” she says, feeling flutters of pleasure and little discomfort. 

If she’s honest with herself, she’s always pictured Slit shoving her face into the sand or a bare mattress, maybe the side of a cabby, fucking her with cruel and desperate attention. But those had been fantasies, and while she wanted to feel him lose himself against her, it doesn’t mean she needs something violent.

Slit doesn’t know the difference because when he hears fast, it means something else to him than it does her. 

“Yeah, fang it,” he snarls, gripping the back of her neck in a tight, supporting palm before rearranging one of her legs up and over his bicep. She’s not tall enough to get an ankle hooked over his shoulder - with the rain it wouldn’t even work if she’d been - so his fingers wrap around the thin bone and proceeds to fuck like a kamikrazy Warboy.

The bike shakes, sinking further against the soft sand dune until the cold grit of it seeps against her spine. Every thrust feels as fresh as the first - penetrating and hypersensitive. Slit grunts with each slap of rain-slick skin. The water falling from the sky lessens, but each drop that lands on her stings. It’s heavy, and when one fat droplet splashes off her nipple, Toast starts praying to gods only The Dag knows anything about.

Slit’s eyes watch her with wide, intense satisfaction. The teeth behind his lips shine; scars vivid despite the night and though he looks like a nightmare, Toast feels her cunt flutter and tighten. The added pressure makes his thrusts less smooth. Dragging nerves burning with pleasure until she can’t stand the ebb and flow any longer. 

With a shaking wrist, she rips a hand off the bike and slaps it between her thighs. The tight muscles above Slit’s groin twitch as her knuckles brush the hairless expanse, seeking out the nub of her clit.

Slit makes a choked noise, eyes widening, watching raptly as she swirls the bundle of flesh furiously; harder than he probably thought she could handle. She’s not soft. 

Toast wants to prove that to him. It’s not as though she doesn’t make sure they all know it - all of her Warboys see her as they saw Furiosa, but right now Toast wants him to see how much her body can handle. 

“Harder, Slit!” she growls, beyond the rain and his revving breathes. 

The sounds that leak out of his throat are eerily similar to a gunning V8, that for a split second, Toast feels like she’s being fucked by a rig made flesh. His stomach curls, muscles tight and bunched on his sides and stomach. The slice of dense strength that winds down towards his cock wets her tongue. 

This, Toast thinks as the end comes crashing, is what it feels like to be with a real man. He’s full-life to her. They both are, and as the creep of pleasure nestles and writhes, growing more singular and sharp as the seconds drag on, Toast forgets that this wasn't supposed to be about breeding. Sometimes decisions made while intoxicated, either off of rotgut, adrenaline or… pleasure, are terrible ideas that seem pointless at the moment. 

Her orgasm makes her soft-headed. Blood gushes in her veins like guzzoline and sets her on fire.

Slit wheezes, tugging her ankle upwards until half her ass is lifted off the bike; until her body is being ravaged against the wet sand and her breasts sting from bouncing furiously against the motions. 

Against her neck, Slit stuffs his face. Metal pinches against her collarbone, abrading the thin skin around her throat, but the choking grunts and desperate whines as Slit churns inside her, deaden the discomfort. 

A hot gush of cum sears her tender insides and true to form Slit keeps fucking her through it, never halting his rhythm until he’s drained and shivering like he’s been struck with a night fever. His body pulses against her. Under her hands, Toast can feel the rattling of his lungs through the meat of his ribs. She slides a hand down, over his ass to squeeze the give there as his hips curl, feeling the power in him through the meat. Her touch livens him momentarily, makes his last few thrusts erratic and jarring, but with an open-mouthed kiss, he stills.

Fluid spills out around his buried length. It’s too much for Toast to handle, so what can’t fill her floods her, pooling down the crack of her rear and over the bike. The excess washes away with the rain and their sweat until it feels like it’s just the rain separating their hot skin.

“...fangin’ fuck,” Slit gasps, lips slipping up along the shell of her ear to bite and lick, huffing breathless moans, “didn’t mean to. Planned on draining it on the sand.”

“It’s fine,” Toast lies. There’s nothing to be done for it now, and she’s less worried right now than she will be later. Sex had its consequences, and this was one of them. Even with him spilling it outside of her there was still a risk. Toast pushes away from the worry and slumps back against the squishy sand. His hand was still stuck in the back of her neck, thumb pressing somewhere along an artery that was making her feel dizzy, but she didn’t bother mentioning it. 

Everything felt… wonderful.

Slit’s mouth exhales hot breath over the wet-chilled skin, down over her collarbone and sternum until he dips down to suck a nipple into his mouth. His lips stretch as wide as they can, engulfing as much flesh as possible; slurping while his tongue beats the tight bud of her nipple. 

There’s no way he’ll be ready to go again anytime soon, nor she, but the sweet distended pleasure from his mouth keeps the orgasmic lull at a steady mast. 

For a few moments, until her nipples feel raw and abused, Toast lets him try his hand at sucking some mothers milk from her. He grunts and frowns, switching to the next and back, looking more and more disappointed until his brows smooth and he seems content to just tease and suckle them as she sighs, stroking the back of his scalp.

Toast could have laid there for the rest of the night, just letting Slit suck her nipples until they were ready to go again, but through the soft rain, Slit hears the squish of tires on the mucky sand. 

“Cavalry is coming,” he grumbles against the side of her breast, scraping the soft edge with his teeth. 

“Yeah, well… good thing it’s them and not a Buzzard cruiser.”

Slit doesn't say anything, but it’s evident he agrees even though the idea of being afraid of Buzzards doesn't sit well with him. They were sitting ducks, like the ones before used to say - it didn’t make him less chrome than before. Toast chooses not to mention that, though. He’ll be strutting around the garages for long enough after tonight.

If she thought he was insufferable before… well, this will only make it worse.

Slit watches her cover her breasts with the translucent cotton material of her war shirt. Out the corner of her eye, having watched him slide his pants up and buckle them high on his hips, she catches him staring at the swell of flesh, licking his lips. Ravenous lizard, she thinks.

When the crew find them, it's as if nothing had happened. 

Rain keeps pouring, pooling water under their tires enough that Toast makes it clear they need to hurry up on the trip back. Memories of being caught with the War Rig in the slog all those days ago was threatening to ruin her post-coital daze. If her Warboys noticed the change in her, they don't say anything, though they didn’t have to. Slit swings himself up on the hatch of the rig with a loud groan of delight, elbows one of the younger boys out of the way before hanging off his perch with a smug grin. 

“Alright, boys,” Toast nods behind the wheel, tugging on the horn with a hidden smirk of her own, “let’s go home!”

The whole way back was a chorus of cheers and splattering rain and when the Citadel creeps up through the curtain of water everyone, including her, howls for joy. 

The world was changing. Finally.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for all who read! It's been awhile since I've written some Toast/Slit, and a standalone to boot! It was fun and I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did writing it. If you have the time, please let me know what you thought in the comments. <3
> 
> Thank you to Darth Fucamus for pointing out some discrepancies and errors with this one. You rock, my friend.
> 
> Tumblr ----> http://brimbrimbrimbrim.tumblr.com/


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